Once, a small boy named Britten, greatly daring, had peeped through the window at the ogre. The door opened and the ogre came out, and Britten ran, returning home drenched, and with the following lucid description of the incident and the cause of his wetting. “He chased me an’ I rin, ah catcht mi teea ower a cobble and down ah went, end-ower-end inta the beck.” So it was not surprising that Bob Lewthwaite, seeing Sir Anthony Gyde going in to the ogre’s cottage and the door closing upon him, waited, forgetting everything else in the world, to see what was going to happen. He waited a long time, nearly three-quarters of an hour, then the door opened and Sir Anthony Gyde came out. He was carrying a black bag in his hand. He closed the door and looked around him, just as he had done before entering. Satisfied, apparently, that he was unobserved, he came down the valley towards the road, got into the motor-car and drove off. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER IX SIR ANTHONY GYDE was a fearless horseman, but a somewhat timid motorist, as motorists go. He drove carefully, rarely exceeding fifteen miles an hour. To-day, however, he cast his timidity aside. He was lucky to-day, for on these roads of Cumberland it is nothing to meet with a flock of five hundred sheep or so, or a string of farm carts, each drawn by a horse terrified of motor-cars, as most of the farm horses of Cumberland still are. It was ten minutes to four when he reached Throstle Hall. The Edinburgh express for London stops at Carlisle at five, so he had plenty of time in which to catch it. He descended from the car in a leisurely manner, with the black bag in his hand, and entered the house. He crossed the hall and entered the library, remained there for a minute or so, and then came out and went into the dining-room. One could tell, by the man’s footsteps, that he was full of unrest. He went upstairs and entered the rooms on the first floor. Here he met his secretary, Mr Folgam, but he did not speak a word. In one of the corridors he met Leloir. “The luggage has all been dispatched, sir,” said Leloir, “and the car is waiting. When would you like to start?” “Start,” said Sir Anthony, speaking like a person awakened from a dream, “for where?” “You ordered the car to take you to Carlisle, sir,” said the astonished Leloir, “to catch the London express at five. I telegraphed this morning for a special saloon carriage to be attached.” “Ah, so I did,” said Sir Anthony, “so I did.” He chuckled, as if at some obscure joke, known to him alone. It was dusk in the corridor, and Leloir could not see his master’s face distinctly, or the expression on it, but he heard the chuckle. He had been in Gyde’s service for two years, and he thought that he knew every phase of his master’s temperament and character, but this chuckle alarmed him more than the wildest outbreak of rage would have done.